


#23: A Handshake Beats an Autograph

by Knitwritezombie (Missa_G)



Series: 100 Rules for Adults (That Clint Barton Never Learned) [23]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint's Circus Past, Diners, M/M, meeting people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-22 08:25:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2501123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missa_G/pseuds/Knitwritezombie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint bumps into someone from his past while on a mission with Phil in Arizona.</p>
            </blockquote>





	#23: A Handshake Beats an Autograph

“Phil,” Clint hissed. “Do you know who that is?” he asked, his eyes wide as he watched the man approach the counter and slide onto a stool, greeting the young waitress cheerfully as he set his newspaper down on the counter.

Phil followed his gaze. “No. Should I?” he asked, genuinely curious.

They were in a small town outside Phoenix, wrapping up an investigation of what had been called in as an 0-8-4, but turned out to be an artifact from a native tribe that had been exposed thanks to recent weather. They were grabbing breakfast before heading back to the site to coordinate handover of the site to a team of local anthropologists.

“That’s Roy Olmeda,” Clint said, as if that explained everything. He ate the last bite of his plain pancakes and glanced over again. Olmeda was dressed in jeans and boots, with a plain button down shirt. His hair was still dark, and from what Clint had seen, he still moved with the contained power and grace that Clint remembered.

“Clint?”

Clint swung his attention back to Phil, who was looking at him with fond amusement. 

“Who is Roy Olmeda?”

“The Olmedas were equestrian performers,” Clint explained. “Way out of Carson’s league, but when I was thirteen or so, we were in the same city at the same time. A bunch of us kids snuck out of the camp to go see them perform,” Clint said, remembering that evening with fondess. It had almost been worth the trouble he’d gotten in the next day for nearly falling asleep while mucking out the elephant pen. “They were brilliant. I would look through the trade papers to see if they were anywhere close to where we were when we travelled.” He took a sip of his coffee and glanced over at the other man again. 

“I caught their last show,” Clint said, his voice softer. “It was just before I –left the circus,” he said, hesitating. “It must’ve been about fifteen years ago,” he said, thinking back. “You know there are fewer than twenty circuses operating worldwide today?” he asked, somewhat rhetorically.

“No,” Phil answered. He’d settled back in his seat in the booth, his coffee mug resting between his palms. “I didn’t know you kept track, or that you had that many fond memories of the circus.”

Clint shrugged, suddenly a bit self-conscious. “I don’t, really, but there were moments that weren’t bad.” He grinned. “But yeah – their last show was brilliant, and it was just another tolling of the bell when they left the business.”

Their waitress brought their check over. Phil grabbed it up. “I’ll take care of this. Go say hi.”

“What?” Clint looked back and forth between Olmeda and Phil. “Why? He doesn’t know me.”

“Clint, how often do you run into someone from your past that you respected and had good memories of? Go say hi. Introduce yourself. Shake his hand,” Phil said as he started to slide out of the booth.

“Not get an autograph?” Clint asked semi-sarcastically. 

“If you want,” Phil said with a shrug. “I’ve just found that handshakes count for a lot more.” He stood and buttoned his jacket, downed the last of his coffee, and moved toward the cash register. 

Clint took a breath, and slid out of the booth behind Phil. “Mr. Olmeda?” he asked, approaching the man.

“Yes?” the man turned. He hadn’t aged much in fifteen years. “Do I know you?”

“No, sir,” Clint said politely. “Well, maybe by reputation. I caught your last show, in Salina.”

The man’s eyes widened. “You have a good memory. That was sixteen years ago.”

Clint nodded. “Your family were amazing performers. I just wanted to say hello.” Clint extended his hand, and Mr. Olmeda took it. 

“Nice to finally meet you, Hawkeye,” the former equestrian trainer said with a wink. “You weren’t the only one who used to sneak into shows.”

“I guess not,” Clint said with a grin as Phil approached, tucking the receipt into his jacket pocket for their expense report later. “Ready?” he asked Phil, who nodded. “It was nice to meet you, sir.”

The man made a “pft” sound of dismissal and waved his hand. “No need for the sir, that’s still my dad. Next time you’re in town, Hawkeye, look me up. We can trade stories.”

Clint’s smile was sincere. “I think I’d like that.” They said their goodbyes and Clint trailed Phil out to the agency sedan. 

“He knew you?” Phil asked as he slid on his aviator style sun glasses. 

“Apparently he was a fan,” Clint said, settling back in the passenger seat as Phil drove off the lot.


End file.
